The Rogue King's Honor
by Samuel L. Mothafuggin Frollo
Summary: The Festival of Fools proves to be a trap, laid by Clopin in order to kidnap Justice Claude Frollo. But why would the gypsies want Frollo alive? This was written for my good friend as part of an artwork exchange. She requested what has to be one of the on
1. A Different Kind of Festivity

The air was thick with dust and the stench of sweat and drunken revelry. Frollo turned his window and pressed his nose to his sleeve, trying to block out those odors that arose from the filth as naturally as maggot arose on dead flesh. A festival - a devil's pageant where the common class prowled the streets for every sin to indulge in. Pockets to steal from, tricks to gamble with, women to touch and expose. They believed that if they sinned only but once every year, God would not cast his holy wrath upon them. Frollo knew far better. This thought consoled him immensely.

Eventually, his carriage jerked to a halt. A door was thrown open, and Frollo's senses almost reeled as the stench of the Festival of Fools hit him at full force. Still, eternally elegant, he managed to emerge with but a discontent force to convey his displeasure. Ah, there was his throne. At least those gypsy heathens knew to respect a man of his stature. He supposed there was something slightly mocking about giving him a throne, but at least it had covers to seclude him from the rest of the lecherous and dribbling crowd.

Gathering his robes, he stepped up and took a seat. His posture was rigid and regal, his aging fingers steepled as he surveyed the stage in front of him and the surrounding crowd. Some gypsy jester was weaving his way through the crowd, stirring up excitement amongst the sheep. It was sad to see how easily the peasants were mislead. By the man's obvious exuberance and garish costume, it was quite obvious that he particularly depraved even for a gypsy. Frollo glanced away to note that his new Captain of the Guard appeared to be enjoying himself. He'd have to keep an eye of him.

Suddenly, the jester appeared in his face sporting a mad grin. "Hurry, hurry! Here's your chance!" the man chanted in a singsong voice, wrapping his gypsy arms around Frollo's shoulders for a moment. Frollo was really too surprised to do much but stare. The gypsy flipped over to his other side and nudged him in an excessively obnoxious manner. "See the mystery and romance!" Much to Frollo's relief, he sauntered off a moment later. Gypsies. So forward and irritating. Like little puppies, almost. Only they would slice your throat after you fed them treats.

The gypsy was upon the stage now, still belting his heart out as he announced the "finest girl in France." Frollo shifted slightly on his throne, a little uncomfortable. He was expecting one of those ridiculously malformed gypsy wenches to suddenly burst forth from those godawful purple curtains. While otherwise it might have been entertaining, he had had a tiresome day and would only laugh for the poor girl should she trip and rid the city of one less heathen.

Quite abruptly, that obnoxious man whom they called the Rogue King burst into a shower of red dust that spun together to form the shape of a woman. A woman who surpassed any beauty Frollo might have dared imagine on those quiet and dark nights when he imagined that, for one moment, his body did not belong to the convent of God. She was the complete opposite of the angelic Maria; her hair was as dark as the shadows in midnight brothels where heathens moaned. Her skin the rich brown color of the sands from Arabia. And eyes...such a color that ancient kings might have plucked them in place of emeralds. Framed by luxuriant black lashes that gave that gaze a distinctly predatory slant. And then she began dancing. The way her dress moved about her sculpted form reminded Frollo of liquid. The blood-red fabric rippling off of beautiful curves and musculature. Heat as if lit by some inner furnace began to ignite in his gut, and spread all the way down to his thighs. Oh God. Oh Maria. Those gypsies could probably smell the minister's arousal.

With as much dignity as he could muster, he tented his fingers and glanced at his brand new Captain of the Guard. "Look," he growled, "at that disgusting display." And as if she had heard him, that sultry witch aimed all of her womanly charms in his direction. Frollo froze, as paralyzed and wide-eyed as a stricken child. The world seemed to slow down as she approached, a coolly seductive smile on that countenance blessed by Lilith. Oh God. He would forsake his vows. He would... She was upon him. So close he could catch the scent of far-off jungles where beasts consumed one another in lust. That exotic, gypsy scent. Wrapping around him. Actually binding him to her. This witch. And then he realized her crescent-adorned scarf was around his neck, pulling him forward. Making him vulnerable. But it didn't matter because those ripe red lips were descending closer, closer. He could taste the perfume.

Then the deception was broken. Lust was quickly replaced by rage as his hat was roughly shoved down over his eyes. He grunted and jerked, knocking his hat askew. The girl had danced away from her. She made a little motion with her dress that she must have supposed was playful, and sauntered off. As if he were some sort of animal from the Italian entertainments expected to bolt out of his chair and take her right then and there. And in a way, it didn't seem to be a such an outlandish idea. It would show her what her whore tricks would bring her in the vast inferno of Hell.

The rest of the dance meant nothing, for the red of her dress seemed to eat up his entire vision and consume him with rage. His nails bite into the fine carving of his chair, scraping over the designs. He barely noticed, even, when she disappeared. Barely registered that the music had began to change. Nothing. Nothing.

But then something did cut straight through Frollo's defenses. "Quasimodo, the hunchback of Notre Dame!" It was the erinyes's voice, ringing out over the crowd. She held up the grubby fist of a bulky form that was very, very familiar. The crowd roared, and a floppy crown was smacked on the hunchback's head with great ceremony. And that naive little fool was smiling as if it were actually something to be proud of! To be mocked this way! The stupid, stupid child. To actually disobey the man who had practically been a father to him all these years! Frollo's felt his rage consume him. He had every mind to call upon his guards and –

All seemed to go very still as the cold bite of a blade was suddenly pressed up against that sensitive little place on the back of his neck. The sensation of smooth cloth rubbed along his chin, and out of his peripheral vision he could barely make out a bright garish purple against his pale skin. "Do not so much as twitch, minister," came a coarse whisper, "or we'll sculpting a new crown from your skewered Christian flesh." To accentuate the point, he could feel the very tip of the blade penetrate his skin. A sticky wetness trickled down past his robes and along his spine. He could not suppress a shudder. "Now I shall tell you how this goes, my good priest, and you shall be obey. I don't think I need to inform you of what happens if you don't."

"How dare you," Frollo hissed. "You fool. My men would slaughter your entire people like the rats they are, were I to be murdered." Damn that Phoebus. He was too absorbed with the antics of that gypsy witch and Quasimodo. There was a brief, mocking laugh. A slight tickle near his ear from a beard. The Rogue King. It had to be. Few other heathens would dare.

"You overestime your popularity, minister. With you gone, your men would probably celebrate. Seems you love your lash a little too well. But this conversation is unnecessary. Either you stand up now and calmly walk backstage, or your head goes rolling over the podium. Choose now." The ever-increasing weight of the blade reminded Frollo just how little he wanted to die. Even if it meant losing some of his dignity. He did not want to die. Paris needed him. God needed him, to do his work by ridding his fair city of corruption and sin. With as much regality as he could manage, he slowly rose from his seat. The blade yielded some, and a gloved hand roughly grabbed his, leading him back around his throne. As soon as he was within range, the blade traced from the back of the neck around to his throat. Pain suddenly shot up his arm as the gypsy wrenched his wrist in a hard twist. Frollo grunted, but kept as quiet as he could manage. Damn that Phoebus. The fool. Why wasn't he paying better attention?

"Do not kill me," his voice came in a harsh whisper. There was but a low laugh in response, and then he was being guided past his bulky throne. Backwards into the curtained depths of the stage. Purple crescents brushed past his face as the gypsy man jerked him into a concealed area. The blade ran across his neck, deceptively gentle, circling around till it pointed where the back of his neck met his shoulders. Allowing the gypsy man the freedom to release Frollo's arm and begin rummaging for something. Presumably, Frollo thought, some form of restraints. And he was correct, for the next moment, the chill of iron seeped into his slender wrists. There was a clicking sound. Manacles. Devious, accursed heathen.

A sharp pain suddenly ascended his harm as the gypsy man gave him a harsh twist, and out of sheer reflex, Frollo attempted to wrench away. There was a ripping sound as the blade's edge sliced through the back of his robe. Clopin struggled behind him to regain his control. The blade's point drew up to his spine, cold metal sending chills down his vertebrae.

"You've been a very cooperative, very good boy," Clopin hissed behind him, twisting his wrists ever-so-slightly. "I'd hate to not reward your fine behavior by guaranteeing your proper delivery through force. Resist me, minister, and I shall sever your cord just enough to leave you my fine little marionette." A grotesque recollection of the Rogue's King puppet likeness of him suddenly surfaced in his mind. He did not doubt that, judging by how adeptly he had seen the gypsy partake in several knife tricks before, the man lacked the finesse to pull off such a move. A new puppet for the gypsy. Frollo went limp.

"Better," came the simple yet infinitely satisfied reply. The minister bit back a cry of shock as something starchy and dry was suddenly thrust over his head. A sack. Had Frollo had air enough, he might've laughed. Really, how amateurish. But effective. It was causing him to become light-headed. He could vaguely register that several sets of hands were lifting his body up off the ground. And before he could so much as stiffen from the vileness of so much physical contact, he was hitting a hard wooden surface. He groaned in pain, for his binds made it impossible to brace himself for the fall. There was the sound of wood sliding upon wood. Soft laughter from beyond his confines; muffled but distinct. Frollo tried to move as much as he could, to get a feel for his space. There wasn't much. A box. How trite and disgusting. He had been shoved into a box. Why wasn't anyone doing anything? Didn't they notice that their High Justice was gone?

Suddenly, there was a violent lurch as the box began to move forward, the sounds of horses trotting outside. Frollo's head smashed against the side of his confines. For a few moments there was nothing but a red, aching world of pain. Then the darkness overtook him and, like the blessed arms of the Virgin, claimed his pain.


	2. Puppets in the Catacombs

Author's Note: Yay! Another chapter! Many thanks to my friend Holbyta, beta reader and supporter, who finally convinced me to get off my lazy ass and start writing again! Please, please review her wonderful Lion King fanfiction here:

http/ this chapter, we enjoy the antics of the psychotic Clopin, a shocked Frollo, and a maniacal dictator hand puppet! Please, please, please review! Or else Clopin's Mr. Hat will hunt you. Just kidding hah hah no I'm not. On with the fic!

No soft sheets enwrapped his lean frame as he woke, no gentle cloth or pleasantry. In fact, he felt quite...cold. And damp. Certainly unusual. Had those accursed maidservants been whittling away their hours, when they were supposed to be attending to him? How dare they. They would suffer the consequences. They would -

Abrupt comprehension. Quite suddenly, he recalled where he was. What precisely had happened. He had been abducted. Remain calm...yes, it was imperative to remain calm. Important to survey his surroundings. Be prepared. Slowly, slowly, his eyes fluttered open.

Gray murkiness first greeted him, blurry and indistinct. But slowly it began to take shape. Dark patches appeared and contours began to form. What appeared to be eyes...a grimacing smile...

"Holy Maria!" The minister cried, and jerked violently away from the decaying skull that was bobbing in front of his face. Low chortling met his shock. The skull disappeared, and the unmasked face of Clopin the gypsy descended upon him, grinning almost as madly.

"Why, my dearest saint, it is such an honor to have you finally join me! I was beginning to think I might've been deprived of quite a bit of fun! After all, we have plenty of bones to play with. Don't need one more skeleton to add to the pile!" He practically giggled with glee. Dreadful. Frollo was apparently captive to this raving lunatic. And, of course, it completely intolerable. A scowl marked his angular features as he attempted to gather himself and rise.

"Ah, ah, ah!" A foot shoved him back against the callous surface of the stones beneath them. "I rather like you in this position, Frollo. Helpless beneath my feet. You rather resemble a pretty little maid about to be ravished." He leaned forward and peered closely at the minister's face. "Well...save the 'pretty' part."

"What do you wish of me, heathen?" Frollo spat, hissing in pain as the gypsy's foot began to grind against his chest. "Why do you not kill me? You will suffer for this insolence! I swear upon it!" His hands clamped down on the gypsy's ankle and attempted to wrench it from his chest.

Almost instantly, a dagger was drawn from Clopin's belt and waved mockingly in his face. "Oh, fiesty! Now, now. Needless to say, if you manage to get out of here, my friend, my men are waiting. Beyond that, an entire miniature little city of gypsies who lust for your blood. And there's more! An entire underground maze of catacombs, filled with my spies! Oh no, my dear judge, even you are my guest here, or you die."

Frollo's lip curled in a sneer, pulling back from his teeth in a somewhat feral fashion. "Damn you to Hell, filthy vermin. Even if I should not be the one to dispose of you, you can be most assured that the Devil awaits your coming with open arms. I am sure that his embrace shall scald your flesh in your nightmares."

"Oh, naughty priest!" Clopin cried, his tone likening to that of an embarrassed young girl. "You should feel fortunate! You are finally within the Court of Miracles, that secret little nest you have so craved to discover! But then," he touched a gloved finger to his lips rather thoughtfully, "you had rather hoped that it would be on your own terms, didn't you? So terribly sorry to disappoint you."

Sweeping off his hat, he granted the pinned man a curt bow. Ever-theatrical, Frollo thought in a daze. His thin lip curled in a sneer. The heathen was attempting to intimidate him. Be practical, he told himself. You must abide by the gypsy's rules for now, but his righteous vengeance shall come. Frollo knew that he had survived the war all these long years through the divinity of his Lord. His Master would not fail him this time around. He said nothing.


End file.
